


Asking For It

by tristesses



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel decides to heal herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asking For It

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 9/8/2008.

She hated him for leaving, and cried when he did, her overdone eyeliner streaking down her cheeks. Everyone stared at her on the bus while she read his obituary – and even with the proof in print, she couldn’t quite believe it. Bruce was her everything, so gorgeously alive, and although she pretended to heal, to pull herself together as time progressed, she secretly knew he was out there, somewhere. But that meant he’d knowingly left her, and she couldn’t forgive him that.

When he returned, her hate and love crystallized into resentment for coming back a shallow bastard who seemed to have suffered nothing while she mourned for him and fought her way up the ranks of the system, playacting the perfect government drone to get to a place where she could truly help people. And when he swaggered up, a model on each arm, white dress shirt soaked through with fountain water and spilled champagne while she stood there in a practical, dark suit, she pressed her lips together and smiled tightly. In the bathroom she splashed water on her face and looked at the mascara tracks in the mirror and told herself, Bruce is dead. This time she believed it.

And when she found out about his secret nightly activities, well, that was it; she gave up on him, Bruce Wayne, the boy she once knew, and resigned herself to the stranger. In the back of her mind she thought of Batman as Bruce’s killer, however illogical that might be, and even though she knew intellectually how good Batman was for the city – God, she hated him. She didn’t understand him; he spoke to her, and she could tell that he loved her, but he was too distant, too haunted, too not-Bruce. All these contradictions tumbled in her mind like a small hurricane, but when the answer came to her, it was clear like the air after a storm.

She would fuck him – it wouldn’t be tender, like making love, or clinical, like sex – it would be dirty, hard and fast and violent, and for once she would give him all the hurt and grief he’d caused her and leave him in the dust. (And sate her own needs in the process – she compared every boyfriend to Bruce and none of them ever measured up – she couldn’t keep them for long.)

She wrote out the to-do list in her day planner – new lingerie would be necessary, as would a trip or two to the adult boutique in the Narrows – for she was always a very organized person. Timing was difficult – she didn’t have any idea what Bruce-the-playboy’s schedule was like, and the Bat controlled the nights – but she figured a Sunday afternoon would be the most laid-back day, and therefore he’d be most likely to stay in his penthouse. There are only so many parties and extravaganzas one can attend in a week, after all.

She’d always expected the consummation of their affection to take place at Wayne Manor, in his wide bed on the second floor, so it was odd to have the door open and see Bruce standing there, hair ruffled and eyes bleary like he’d just woken up. Especially considering the objects in the bag she carried.

“Rachel,” he said, surprised and not at all drowsy.

“Bruce,” she replied, with a cool smile. “Can we talk?”

“Well – of course,” he said, and stepped away, allowing her in.

She set the bag on the coffee table and scanned the place quickly; it was very fashionable, very posh, exactly what Bruce-the-playboy would be expected to have. He stood beside her, slightly flustered, having quickly thrown a robe on over his shirtless body.

Rachel opened her mouth to speak right when he said, “So, what – ”

“Sorry,” they said in unison, then chuckled a little. Bruce’s smile – oh, that sheepish grin, just a little lopsided, so familiar. A small jolt of lust leaped to her groin.

“You first,” he said, with a little gesture of his hand.

“Is Alfred around?”

“No, he’s not,” Bruce said, “he’s taking care of some business for me.”

“Bat business?”

A slight, enigmatic smile was her only reply.

“So what’s in the bag?” he asked her finally, after a few moments of tense silence. She glanced toward it almost unwillingly, a slight twitch of the head.

“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, and stopped. What was she planning on saying? Was there any way to make this proposition remotely normal? Had it been almost a full minute since she’d spoken? Yes, yes it had. And she’d come this far; she couldn’t stop now.

He was looking at her, mildly confused, gorgeous mussed hair and dark eyes.

“Oh Bruce,” she said in a rush, and jumped him.

He tasted exactly the way she thought he would, felt the same, felt wonderful, scratchy stubble and all. He made a muffled _oof_ at first, hesitant, but soon enough he grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, her breasts brushing his chest, fingers tangled in her hair.

She ran her hand up his chest, smooth and muscled, traced the sharpness of his hipbone, then slid her hand and tweaked his nipple. He moaned into her mouth, ground his hips against hers, and she almost giggled at the exhilaration sweeping her body. She throbbed, low down, needed to be touched, and she pushed him to the couch, stripping the robe from his shoulders, rubbing his hot skin.

“Rachel,” he gasped, sprawled across the cushions, goggling up at her. “What are you - ”

“Shut up,” she told him, and much to her vindication, he did. Now it was time to explore, with her hands and lips and tongue, leaving marks a little too deep to be called love bite, grinding against his thigh, hearing his little moans and whimpers. Her body was tense and aroused, nipples hard little peaks against her silk dress, and she perched on his lap to unbutton it, baring the red lace beneath. (Traditional but effective, judging from the look in his eyes and his labored breathing.) Slipped out of her skirt, leaving it in a silken puddle on the floor, and straddled him, fingers seeking, stroking, caressing and guiding him to her heat.

Her dark locks were wrapped around his fingers, his hand at her waist, and he slid her under him, kissing and biting her in return. And no, she didn’t like this, she was dangerously close to losing control, so she dug her nails into his back and dragged, leaving scrapes in his skin.

“No,” she snapped, and somehow maneuvered her way onto his back, pressing him into the cushions, nipping at his shoulder blades.

“That isn’t how it works, not today,” she murmured, and worked his pants down to his ankles. She licked his shaft and he trembled beneath her.

“Oh?” she said, and licked her lips, so aroused, so nervous. “Is that how you like it?” A savage bite to his left buttock; it would leave a mark. “Do you want me to fuck you?” When did she get this bitter?

“Rachel, _please_.” That whimpering moan, oh God, she wanted to play with him more, draw him out longer, but she can’t deny that sound. The bag was easy to unzip, but the straps for the toy were more complex; she fumbled with them for a moment, then succeeded, tremendously glad she’d tried this on at home.

She rubbed the toy along the crevice of his buttocks, resting her palms on his back, caressing him.

“Bruce,” she whispered huskily. “Look at me.”

He craned his neck and caught sight of her, smirking and satisfied and newly equipped, and his breathing intensified. She clambered off the couch, slightly awkward, and stood by his head, looking down at him. He stared up with lust-darkened eyes, frantic and just a little out of control.

“You know what to do,” she said softly. “Suck it.”

He did, more enthusiastically than she’d expected. She cupped the back of his head with one hand, threading her fingers through his hair, and thrust forward slightly, relishing both his slight gag and the way he merely bobbed his head more fervently.

“Oh, Bruce,” she mocked, affection lacing her tone, “you’ve had practice at this, haven’t you?”

Rachel stepped away, leaving him panting, mouth open, lips swollen, and rummaged through her bag. He watched her, and she slapped his back lightly in admonishment.

“No peeking,” she said. “I’m surprising you.”

He turned his head away, and she took advantage of the moment to admire him, skin puckered with bites and saliva, rocking his hips against the cushions, seeking sensation, face buried in the pillows, looking so deliciously wanton she considered making him wait longer just to see his anticipation build.

Then he moved, crouching and leaning back on his heels, his balance pristine, and looked at her, looked at her and begged.

Now she was behind him, rubbing lubricant along her rubber shaft and into him, listening to him moan and wriggle closer to her. Now she wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him to her, easing him down, watching the muscles in his back twitch and ripple as he was stretched. She licked her palm and took his cock in hand, smearing precome to the base, fondling his balls, and thrust up into him.

He screamed, a high, thready cry, and ground against her, scrabbling at the cushions of the couch with his grasping hands. Rachel grabbed at his shoulder with one hand, barely able to balance, and pumped him with her other, using nails, his gasping cries spurring her on. She kissed and sucked at his throat where it met his shoulder, and rocked with him, and he writhed and whined, hips bucking as he came in her hand.

He was incoherent and shaking for a minute or so, and she tidied up during that time, meticulously wiping the toy down, leaving out band-aids for his bites. As she stepped into her dress, he spoke.

“What about you?”

“What?” she asked, sincerely confused.

“You. Don’t you want…” he gestured at her, then back at himself.

Rachel shook her head. She was hot and sticky and wet down below but she didn’t want Bruce to take care of that. No, this was it; she’d done what she wanted and now it was finished. She looked down at him and felt almost light, and smiled at him, the first true smile she’d given him in a long, long time.

“No, Bruce,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m fine. For once in my life, I’m fine now.”

When the door shut behind her, she started to laugh. She wondered if Bruce could hear, then discovered she didn’t really care.

“I’m done,” she said, bubbles of joy rising in her throat. “It’s over.”

She shouldered the bag and made her way toward the elevator.


End file.
